Soaring with Shattered Spectacles


Soaring with Shattered Spectacles: the exquisite corpse musings of Mitch Cohen and his rebellious constituents Chapter 2

Follicles of treason sprouted by the agents of demise, spread not your infirmity, cast not your dour gluttony. Dizzy spells, confusion and a plague of fractured barely-conscious spirits abound. Extending a dim witted flame in no particular direction I summon the wistful and courageous matadors of Puerto Nuevo. The night sky is clear. Clouds form a circular mist about the waning moon.
Unclean hands, I vaguely recall loved and respected ones engaged in secret assignments in foreign countries. Through the haze I am hated, I am forgotten, I am scorned in the dance macabre. The piercing agony of alone, furiously diminishing in hot pastels on a porous surface, rubbed in, torn (the texture of the paper and the overall quality.) The artifact of it remains somewhere, mildly enshrined, frozen, halted. Listening to the thumping remainder of life, I can feel it both in the esophagus and in the bowels. Assuredly, I open my eyes wide, and remove them. I remove them both. Thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump. And so on.
	Absinthe, Wormwood distillations with fancy spoon accoutrements violently explode with cataclysmic turmoil. The effect on my brain is nothing less. I am the seizure, erupting and imploding with compounding insurgence, delightfully drooling, maniacally grinning in fits of fanciful flagellation. My heartbeat expands through the frenzied choreography, abruptly halting any remaining equilibrium and levitating this whole damned continuum beyond any sense of familiar perception.

	Outside generosities of neglect were wafting and swirling. Errant odors took their turns, emanating gifts of a callous and vacant nature. Drifting comments wafting in and out of consciousness were audible through the interference of the tribunal committee who had halved and quartered them at their seemingly random discretion. Loved ones, and others, began crystallizing openly and with an unexpected unveiling in a hailstorm of truth.

Pinnacles, sharp and hardened, feral yet domesticated, pervaded the dream that night, despite what the doctors were inclined to believe. Pinnacles of softened limestone, granite and obsidian grew animate, extending and protruding with a reluctant omnipotence that was beyond the doctor’s capacity for understanding. It was only an odor,.. information conveyed upon the crest of a fume, a nasal mirage if you will, an invisible premonition teetering on the edge of self. It is neither noxious nor pleasant, an infamous tickler of fungus encrusted inhibitions. Question me this, oh elixir of forgetfulness, does the vascular speckled surface of the brain-spirit incognito, when spiraling through the thin membrane of appearances, land in the deep end or the shallow end? And of a more pressing nature, does it wear a bathing cap? Crunchy? Or ......Smooth?!
Blackened garden mindscapes by the secret fishing hole. He showed up from out of no where, without a sound, pissed off and ready to make trouble. How did you find this place? You described it to me over the bottle, now I’m here. You’ve betrayed my world, baby ‘G’ and Charlie ‘B’. It’s over, the set up is over, I told you this was my territory Kramden.
Behind the bungalow, the meadow gave way to the murky mud flats where the amphibians wallow. Descending along through the rocky embankment the empty cicada shells stood as the sentinels of abandoned armor upon the stones. Further along lay the secret pond where baby ‘G’ would make his ambush. The landscape is within you and you know better than to gamble with an unhatched egg. I will cast my line through your jig, so that your memory will dry up like a one legged toad on a hot stone. This mindscape shall remain fertile only to myself, the one and only baby ‘G’, and as the mud crackles in the late afternoon heat you will be destined to recount nary a one of these recollections to another living soul, so long as you live! Though I lured you here, my secret fishing hole is my own domain and will remain so by my own magic.

Because he displayed such a proclivity for ebullient mayhem, little Boris often found himself the recipient of punitive reprisal. There was simply not much choice in the matter. Each was to play their parts to perfection. Like Bud Abbott’s straight man to Lou Costello’s buffoonery, the ‘Crag hearts’, better known as the lords of retribution and justice , would dish out such corrective measures including the infamous snooty super-sonic cheese fling or the unrestrained paper clip toss calculated to subdue little Boris’s petulant devilishness ....it was all pre-ordained.
Of course these corrective measures where as effective as the Colorado River’s ability to create the walls of the Grand Canyon, for today Boris the little one exists no more, sunken was his buoyant glee, as if it ever existed at all. As if Boris himself ever existed at gal....... Indeed..... for to affirm little Boris and the Crag heart’s existence and to consider their actions in the pantheon of the truthful realm is, to put it quite simply, high folly. So wipe the crust from your eyes, and entertain not your own proclivity for ebullient mayhem, lest you find yourself the target of the snooty super-sonic cheese fling.
My own existential authenticity, purposefully muddied and camouflaged in the dense podge of the spiraling moon-pie night, conducted itself with all the churning efficiency of a sensually enigmatic celestial flare. How efficient is such a celestial flare, particularly one of the sensually enigmatic variety?

Slipshod microcosms of poor design, lacking in lasciviousness, what do you make of that? It is perhaps comparable to a Johnny come lately, a spindle-brain maligned in malaise and spiritless splendor, “False, false, !” I whimpered triumphantly in niggardly tones that sounded as if my mouth was stuffed with mulch, “The microcosm is……..” Suddenly I was interrupted by the the bellicose pontifications of belly-flopping bottomless bisexuals bouncing in the boudoir! Although this was not a totally unexpected shenanigan, there was simply no denying the boisterousness of the affair. Tally-ho?
The weight of solitary release, a flotation device hitherto autonomous to my self interests and an eyelid, half open to filter pride’s sneak attack. Zero the hero, lord of compassionate nihilism, or a misguided mystic, I command you to reveal your incendiary hoidy toidy legions of fear, surrender them to the dying embers and join me for a double-shot. Annihilation my friend, is a hero’s journey.
	Melancholia envelopes me like a velvet reverie of melodic familiarity that’s left me not. Such a loyal intimate, such a sublime caress. Solace for the weary is the forecast this solstice night, this solstice of solace makes the promise of Spring seems so distant…bunker down in the night frigid, warm flesh delight my senses, Spring does not always arrive should you live to feel the day.

	I know you not as I am at the moment of a transparent catapult shot into then, but rather as a fish out of water just out of reach always. Of course the secret other is not easily pinned down, if ever at all, as the current races the flame for supremacy.

Death is the one most intimate with straight up betrayal, loneliness proud and true, like jumping out of a moving sedan at 4am, its always at 4am, and not blinking an eye. I'm doing it right now, and I can't even help it. Stalwart, what ever the hell that means....It's what is dreamt about but not what I can know, like you know who, that's what I say . Get used to it , befriend it, it is why. It is the hidden why behind most everything.
A fuzz hazed enclosed helmet, laden with a levitating option designed to pierce the veneer of now and laters, a sweet deal. Do not take me on when I’m wearing the helmet, for any attempt to strategize my defeat will only result in a crescendo of amusement on my part, so olay compadre olay.
Groundling maple tipped tap dancing shoes, Bulgarian. “I’ve been dreaming of tap dancing on the desert sands for quite some time now, it is not impossible, nor so unlikely as one may at first conclude, for appearances are but the tip of the popsicle” For the moment, quicksand tap-dancing, may require a degree of acumen as yet unavailable to the unhooved,
Groundling maple tipped tap dancing shoes, Bulgarian, “I’ve been dreaming of tap dancing on the desert sands for quite some time now, it is not impossible, nor so unlikely as one may at first conclude, for appearances are but the tip of the popsicle.” For the moment, quicksand tap-dancing, may require a degree of acumen as yet unavailable to the unhooved, lava lamp like a Beatles song played backwards, halting an unrevived spirit on hiatus from the vista of forever crisply.
Soaring like a cracked egg, fanning the flames of the collective unrest within the fissure of just then. there is no tidal wave here. There is a ground swell arching like a dome towards the pregnant moonlight.

“Its not just hopscotch!!” oozed Brent who had not yet fully recovered from his recent bout of shingles. Asphalt extensions do not remove the clouds from the tumor of moistened fleshy peaches. Blink four times an hour, and cry upon your untrimmed fingernail, then inquire how many knuckles are truly useful for softening the ache in the congested void, before it disappears. One of the incorrect answers can not be three cubed for the sum of it’s parts are oblivious to the follicles of treason.
Haunted, nauseous, groundless, floundering in exile, desperation restrained, ecstatic exuberance, expansive passions rooted in love and knowing. Tweaked, pinched, sniffled fun loving freckle face, frown not for the graying blades of grass require no snipping tomorrow. Perk up, swell and roam with the drifting clouds over the Colorado sky, saunter in your pink slippers if you please, and throw your shoulders high. Groundless nauseous haunted morning sunk me down but I did not create an invitation or invent a separate other, it is I, I sat down and sat and felt the sensation arise and fall as all ways.
Grated metal heat vents in the floor emit warm air, but they are not comfortable to kneel upon with your bare knees. Wrigley spearmint gum was not popular with inhabitants of planetary non-solids in an infinite ago age paralleling the river whiskers. The river whiskers quivered responding to the soft skin of long ago caressing the empty coffee can. Random kumquats in C-minor
	Wallowing in melancholia, faith succumbed to the muck of crystallized illusion. Like a weary boxer whose prideful knees are buckling in the 12th, letting go is akin to sparring with annihilation.
This has been the loneliest Thanksgiving I’ve ever felt. Forgotten, cold & feeling rejected, I am reminded of my fragile vulnerability and timid scarcity. I will carry on as one must, meeting the next moments honestly, hoping to employ some alchemy upon buckled knees damaged illusions and disappointed loved ones.

Soaring stalagmites rising narrow and high, tentacled osmosis flung far and wide, a top each heavenly needle sat several spiraling moon pies transfixing the dazed and hypnotized constituents down below. Blup blup blup. Hovering above the collective slumber, the sweet chocolate and marshmallow cellophane encased cakes could not seemingly commit to either ascent nor descent . Who will revolt the veneer of civility? Oooh. Suddenly a motion, a flash of penetrating light, dismantling the ramshackle enclosure containing the constituents, the roof plucked away revealing ancient plumbing of stone and salt and a pulsating membrane unnoticed forever. Esophagus, esophagus, esophagus rose the chants in unison from below.
	Pimpled rose parchment ping-pong balls glistening with the moist dew of pink poontang nectar festooned the cloudless sky like some festive gift wrapped holiday celebration.
Splunking the spongy gray morass beneath the ill rooted tufts of crusty hair follicles stranded upon their reasonless abode, diver down. Sinking slowly slow sinking deeply deep within the somatic interior cavity forming the visceral hollows of the abdominal abyss uneasy with indigestion. A uniquely baroque intestinal upset likely caused by the daring consumption of French fried fizzle sticks, freckled fungi and peppered pork rinds.
	Pop the hood.

Manuel, a normally well behaved second grader, violently grabs a toy from his peer Clarissa’s hand, causing the shy girl to melt in sobs. Manuel’s behavior is disruptive to the classroom environment, and seemingly without antecedent. What we don’t realize is that Manuel lost his beloved pet cat earlier that morning.
	Manuel’s cat passed away that morning before school began, he discovered it dead in it’s litter box which was kept in his bedroom closet. Manuel did not mention this distressing news to a soul. He kept it hidden inside himself. Manuel also hid the fact that he forced his cat to ingest rat poison before going to bed the night before causing it’s agonizing death. Manuel is troubled and suffers. The teacher confiscated the toy loosening it from Manuel’s grasping clutch and gently returned it to Clarissa. He hands Clarissa a kleenex to wipe her tears. The teacher wisely takes young Manuel aside and offers him a double bourbon served neat, then abruptly ... coldly decapitates the child. The teacher is troubled and suffers. He is tried by the state for his crimes and executed.
Insanely the playoff game’s significance was preeminent to the townsfolk, rather than the small racoon family quietly born in the thick behind the schoolhouse where young Manuel was bourboned & beheaded. What's the point spread? Proud Papa racoon gathered tasty crustaceans and insect larva from around the pond for his new cuddly family, especially for Mama racoon who was rather worn out from the ordeal.
Kids today don’t often find themselves with the opportunity to dip the girl’s pigtails in the inkwell. No, not much any more.
	Pop the hood please.

Forge, melt, dissipate, coagulate again. I reluctantly dropped anchor to keep from drifting away upon the clouds reflected in my eyes. Fearful, that I may forget the journey I imagined myself with a body racked by terminal illness, and sprouted wings. Remembering now I awakened to coagulate again. If only I will remember how.
Where have your morals gone? Have they died in the foxhunt, or have they sunken deep within the anchovy? Eyelashes come and eyelashes go as the stunned children could not batter an eye in the presence of the searing bull. The most innocent of stars burning so brightly over the ladder sprouting from the bread mold, was sucked from the sky through the horn of the bull.. Olay!
Pyramids eternal, she beseeched with all her heart! The hair that grows from my thigh was curlier than dried macaroni, I noticed, as the kaleidoscope caused my eyes to cascade below my chin. Yet the pyramids will time expunge, just as the mighty mole will dance in the eye of the needle. Cha cha cha! Her breasts were pink and yellow, as she cried of happiness flowered with gifts she will not soon forget. I refuse to pay for this ticket she moaned as the door was flung wide open with all her might. Blind puppies can breathe underwater, she discerned pressing the ridges of her outer ear against the seashell oracle. Snowmen without gloves protect the hiding sand crabs sleeping just below the sand’s surface. The clouds do not turn gray here.
Everything is crying, everything is really crying, everything is crying.... we noticed that that was just another lie too.


	Chapter 1

yes, do contact Mitch Cohen

Soaring with Shattered Spectacles: the exquisite corpse musings of Mitch Cohen and his rebellious constituents